Panting, Arutha looked where Amos indicated. In the darkness he saw huge forms rearing up alongside the ship, blacker shapes against the blackness. Amos yelled, “We’re clearing the Great South Rocks Pull, Prince of Crydee! Pull if you wish to ever see dry land again!”
Arutha hauled upon the tiller, forcing the balky ship away from the terrible stone embrace mere yards away. Again they felt the ship shudder as another low grinding sound came from below Amos whooped. “If this barge has a bottom when we’re through, I’ll be amazed.”
Arutha felt a gut-wrenching stab of panic, followed immediately by a strange exultation. He found himself seized by a nameless, almost joyous feeling as he struggled to hold the ship on course. He heard a strange sound amid the cacophony and discovered he was laughing with Amos, laughing at the fury erupting around him. There was nothing left to fear. He would endure or he wouldn’t. It didn’t matter now. All he could do was give himself over to one task, keeping the ship heading past the jagged rocks. Every fiber of his being laughed in terror, in joy at being reduced to this lower level of existence, this primal state of being. Nothing existed save the need to do this one thing, upon which all was wagered.
Arutha entered a new state of awareness. Seconds, minutes, hours lost all meaning. He struggled, with Amos, to keep the ship under control, but his senses recorded everything around him in minute detail. He could feel the grain of the wood through the wet leather of his gloves. The fabric of his stockings was gathered between his toes in his water-soaked boots. The wind smelled of salt and pitch, wet wool caps, and rain-drenched canvas. Every groan of timber, smack of rope against wood, and shout of men above could be clearly heard. Upon his face he felt the wind and cold touch of melting snow and seawater, and he laughed. Never had he felt so close to death, and never had he felt more alive. Muscles bunched, and he pitted himself against forces primeval and formidable. On and on they plunged, deeper and deeper into the madness of the Straits of Darkness.
Arutha heard Amos as he shouted orders, orchestrating every man’s move by the second. He played his ship as a master musician played a lute, sensing each vibration and sound, striving for that harmony of motion that kept the Wind of Dawn moving safely through perilous seas. The crew answered his every demand instantly, risking death in the treacherous rigging, for they knew their safe passage rested solely upon his skill.
Then it was over. One moment they were fighting with mad strength to clear the rocks and pass through the fury of the straits, the next they were running before a stiff breeze with the darkness behind.
Ahead the sky was overcast, but the storm that had held them for days was a distant gloom upon the eastern horizon. Arutha looked at his hands, as if at things apart, and willed them to release their hold upon the tiller.
Sailors caught him as he collapsed, and lowered him to the deck. For a time his senses reeled, then he saw Amos sitting a short way off as Vasco took the tiller. Amos’s face was still mirthful as he said, “We did it, boy. We’re in the Bitter Sea.”
Arutha looked about. “Why is it still so dark?”
Amos laughed. “It’s nearly sundown. We were on that tiller for hours.”
Arutha began to laugh too. Never had he felt such triumph. He laughed until tears of exhaustion ran down his face, until his sides hurt. Amos half crawled to his side. “You know what it is to laugh at death, Arutha. You’ll never be the same man again.”
Arutha caught his breath. “I thought you mad there for a time.”
Amos took a wineskin a sailor handed him and drew a deep drink. He passed it to Arutha and said, “Aye, as you were. It is something only a few know in their lives. It is a vision of something so clear, so true, it can only be a madness. You see what life is worth, and you know what death means.”
Arutha looked up at the sailor standing by them, and saw it was the man Amos had pitched over the rail to head off the mutiny. Vasco threw the man a frown as he watched, but the man didn’t move. Amos looked up at him, and the seaman said, “Captain, I just wanted to say . . . I was wrong. Thirteen years a sailor, and I’d have wagered my soul to Lims-Kragma no master could pilot a ship such as this through the straits.” Lowering his eyes, he said, “I’d willingly stand for flogging for what I done, Captain. But after, I’d sail to the Seven Lower Hells with you, and so would any man here.”
Arutha looked about and saw other sailors gathering upon the quarterdeck or looking down from the rigging Shouts of “Aye, Captain,” and “He has the truth of it” could be heard.
Amos pulled himself up, gripping the rail of the ship, his legs wobbling a little. He surveyed the men gathered around, then shouted, “Night watch above! Midwatch and day watch stand down.” He turned to Vasco. “Check below for damage to the hull, then open the galley. Set course for Krondor.”